Let Me Count the Ways
by Jack E
Summary: Having gone two years without Will, is Jack becoming a more appealing alternative, or is Elizabeth still is true to William as ever? “How do I love thee? Let me count the ways.” Oneshot.


DISCLAIMER: _I do not and will never own any of the characters or settings appearing in this chapter. They were conceived by Ted Elliot & Terry Rossio, Jay Wolpert and Stuart Beattie and are owned by Disney Enterprises, Inc. Some of the dialogue can be connected to the first film and, hence, is not mine but was inserted into the story to put connections between my story and the film.

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Let Me Count the Ways

"What are you writing?"

The dancing flames of the merry fireplace enhanced the peeved shadows that ran across her face as Elizabeth forced herself to keep her temper and keep writing. "Nothing."

Jack stepped away from the model ghostship he had been unnecessarily fingering and edged towards the busied blonde, eyeing the quickly filling parchment less-than-inconspicuously. "Tha's _not _an empty page."

"_Something_," she hissed, turning momentarily in her seat to send a sharp glance in his direction, the fire gleaming in her hair as she returned to her parchment and quill. The scratch of its pointed end working frivolously to its purpose followed the short silence of her dipping it in its nearby inkwell, accompanying the crackling of the luminous hearth flames harmoniously. The trees rustled under a full blue moon outside her wide window, a perfect picture on a beautiful night.

Jack nodded his head with a faux-satisfied frown on his face. "Tha's good, tha's good…" came his mutter, as he trained his eyes on the landscape portrait over the mantelpiece for the umpteenth time, pretending that it interested him in the half-hope that maybe it would if he kept trying. The warm rocky beach, with all its intricate splendor, didn't. He turned his attention back to the lovely young woman at her study. "That something being in the nature of…?"

A large sigh of perturbation heaved her delicate shoulders as she once more dipped her quill. "A letter."

Truly? It certainly must have been one of significant importance for her to be so heartily invested in it. Was it diplomatic? Secretive? She paused to shake what Jack supposed were some building cramps in her hand, and Jack gave into the curiosity that tickled his idle brain and closed the distance between them with the careful soundlessness of a shadow. His boots were gingerly placed on the polished wood of her magnificent office as he approached, closer, closer. He could smell the soaps and oils in her hair, and the words were just about ready to come into view—

She spun around, her eyes flashing ferocious and fair. "A _personal_ letter—now, _go away_." She shoved him fiercely, sending him several steps backwards, before returning to her letter of 'personal'—as the pirate captain now knew—nature. _Personal_… Why, there was nothing personal about letters. That's why they were put on paper and not kept to one's self—so people could _look at them_! That's also why the Sparrow never bothered to write any secrets of his own… unless he intended for them to be found, of course.

Apparently, the girl thought otherwise, however. Her hand was positively dancing across the page in its determined action. Personal… No, surely it _must_ have been more important than that!

"Who's it to?" he quipped, hopefully with a full sense of nonchalance.

"None of your concern," she snapped coolly.

'_Bugger_.' "Oh." He fiddled trivially with the talons of a chicken's foot attached to one of the multiple belts about his waist. It poked his finger, and he dropped it with a hiss before shoving said digit into the caring haven of his mouth. Ah. He hadn't washed his hands recently. He made a face at the odd combined tangs of blood and dirt bombarding his unhappy tongue.

"It's just Will."

The taste was forgotten as his face was stretched with intrigue, and he removed his finger from his mouth to grin slyly. "_Oh?_" he pressed dramatically, sauntering his way to the front of her desk with a mischievous glint in his eye. She paused a moment, attempting to withhold evidence of her suspicion before writing on, ignoring the pirate with resolve. But he continued to prod. "_Just_ Will, eh?" She grit her teeth nigh unnoticeably, and he flashed his own in a puckish grin as he fiddled with a braid of his beard. He set a grimy hand on the desk and leaned upon it nonchalantly. "Since when did 'Just Will' fall so far from grace, if I might be so bold to ask—"

"Will you stop it?!" The ferocity of her anger surprised him enough to cock an eyebrow and meet her pretty features, churned by emotion. But fury was not the only thing he found in her gaze when he took the time to look. Sorrow..."You know that's not what I meant. I just thought that it was obvious, since I hardly write anyone else—at least, in comparison to him—that's all. It's enough."

He tried not to let it sway him, but his conscience was relentless. He soon found himself regretting prodding at a thing of such tenderness as an open wound to the young woman, regardless how much time had passed. Perhaps he could reverse the mood? He shrugged noncommittally and feigned a pout in his brow as he turned away, with his best grumble of, "You could write to me…"

Surprisingly, it worked. She snorted and scoffed at once in a manner most unlike a delicate flower of her past standing, and continued her assault on the innocent leaflet beneath her hands. "Don't be ridiculous, Jack. You're right here. And I write to you more than enough."

Well, if she took the bait the first time, surely he could get a laugh out of her by the night's end. He continued the joke with a grandiose sweep of his arms and a cocky gesture to his own person. "Oh, come now! I know exactly what you could pen—I've got it all figgered out": he perched himself daintily on the edge of her desk, much to her clear vexation as she glowered up at him without moving her head. He waved his hands as if to have her visualize a picture that wasn't there. "You'd start, 'My dearest, wonderful, magnificent captain, Jack Sparrow,' eh? An' then it'd go: 'Oh, Jack, how do I love thee? Let me count the ways—'"

"Oh my goodness! How could I have forgotten?!" she cut him off with breathless fright, as she stood upright, her hands pressed instinctively over her mouth as her eyes gleamed back at him over her soft fingertips, wide with surprise. Perplexed, he looked back at her without effort to conceal his interest in her sudden outcry. Her stiffened form held for several seconds with her breath, before her eyes softened significantly. And Jack was surprised to find there... guilt? What on earth? Her rosy lips parted gently as she dipped her head bashfully and tucked a wayward strand of hair behind her ear. "I _have_ written you… something..." she confessed in a low whisper.

What was this? Jack cocked an eyebrow, no longer caring to mask any of his true reactions. The peculiarity of his recitations reminding her of such a thing had truly piqued his interest, and he would be assuaged in his curiosity. Surely, she simply spoke of a letter in which she had reminisced of William for a large portion of its weight, and had simply forgotten to send it for some reason or another...? But the way she fretted, glancing out the window nervously as if to be certain no eyes found her coming revelation, bid otherwise, as she opened a drawer and began to rummage through its contents. She seemed half-hearted, at first, but soon found purpose in her search, quickly locating the sheet she searched for.

The beautiful maid looked with a most indefinably curious expression, before clutching it close to her breast, as if to keep Jack from cheating off of its contents. She looked to him, openly imploring for understanding, and yet, timid, shy as a school girl, dipping her head gently. Darkness of the night combating the rosy golden light of the hearth made it difficult to tell, but Jack dared guess that he beheld a subtle blush kiss her cheeks. "You see, the reason I was reminded… it's… well, it's something… along those lines, actually."

Lines? What lines? How do I love thee? Well, if it was a letter of _that_ sort for William, it made absolutely no sense for her to keep it, let alone reveal it to him, Jack Sparrow. But, she hadn't said it was written to William—it had been written to _him_. What was going on? Suddenly, a queer conflict came to contest inside of the eccentric pirate captain. He was concerned, foremostly, for his King and her stray lover. As far as he had been aware, her devotion to him was unchanging, unwavering—and her faith in his return as concrete as the foundations of the world. Her interests in he, Jack Sparrow, had be flighty and trivial before, used to his own demise. Yet, he couldn't help but prod at the possibility and curiosity at her shifting in resolve. Ten years _was _a long time... And, after all, he _was _Captain Jack Sparrow. He found a handful of girls in every port for a sound reason...

Oddly, however, he found more dismay at the thought than felicity or secret pride. Perhaps, at one time, he would have entertained the chance for her advances, but now, when he had the chance of chances... It was not himself he thought of.

She had been staring at him. It unnerved him to discover, but once he had, she dropped her gaze. She sighed deeply, heaving her chest noticeably as she held the parchment out for his hand to take. "It's just … it's just a list of…" She withdrew her hand suddenly, as he reached for it, pinning him with a wide-eyed stare of dreadful worry. "Oh, Jack," she gasped, "you can't possibly tell anyone about this—"

"Oh, I shan't—"

"—because… I'm not supposed to love you." She choked, and silence flooded in as Jack's conscience began to pound at his ears. She seemed forlorn, glad at the revelation's emergence and yet terrified to continue, uncertain. Before, Jack would have been thrilled to hear her continue, enthralled by the way she caressed his pride. Now, he wasn't sure he could bear to hear another word, though, strangely, he couldn't stem the desire to keep listening. "I'm supposed to love Will, and I… I'm not certain I could bear to hurt him—to leave him to that wretched curse. He means a great deal to me."

"Understood." She'd come closer to him, gazing at him openly through long, lovely eyelashes, the paper once more clutched to her breast. Could _he_ leave the boy to the curse? His own bitterest purgatory?

She fluttered her eyes, reaching out and fingering the cotton of his sleeve."I was thinking about you… And, well, I'd decided that I shouldn't be thinking of you in such a manner—" she suddenly withdrew her hand, sharply, as if realizing she touched but fire, and restrained herself with her hand placed firmly behind her back, "—that I should dispose of such thoughts and feelings." She looked at him pointedly, but he refused to look back. She was trying to communicate something he didn't want to hear any longer. "So, I decided to write down the things about you that I loved the most—the things that I fell in love with, and truly love about you—and then I'd dispose of them. The idea was that, when I did, I'd be able to more easily relieve myself of my predicament. However… when it came to the disposal portion of my venture… I couldn't bring myself to do it."

Jack cursed to himself. Surely, this wasn't what he thought it was? Was it? Did he want it do be? Was he thrilled? Perhaps. But he shouldn't be—it caused him nothing but trouble before! And William was bound to be far less forgiving if it happened in truth, under such dreadful circumstances. She was so beautiful, truly, but there were plenty of other beauties in the world, weren't there? What was one more, dammit?

"Here… is the complete list of my forbidden romantic inclinations towards you…"

Her whisper was soft and alluring, as she gently held the sheet out for his taking, and Jack quickly found his resolve falter. It was trouble. The whole lot of it was trouble, he knew, and he should not have allowed this foolish game to begin again. But who was Captain Jack Sparrow to deny trouble when it knocked on his door? He took the leaflet.

"I'm trusting you with this secret," she pleaded silently, as she withdrew from his presence, dipping her head to embrace the shadows and turning her back to him in shame, guilt, sorrow...

He swallowed, and offered a meager form of reassurance. "An' your trust is well-placed, darlin', be well-assured of that. Now, if you'd please…" He turned to the paper, and after setting it in a proper direction, he sought its message with unhappily eager eyes. "Lessee…" There was a pause, as he found not what he was looking for. He looked on the paper's backside, and still didn't find his quarry. Turning the paper this way and that futilely, he eventually stammered, lamely, to his ears, "I think you grabbed the wrong paper, luv."

"No. That's the one," she replied in an oddly choked voice. Her tone was high-pitched and far different from its melancholic conspiratory exchanges hissing just before through the darkness. In fact, it sounded as if she were... Was it, that she was withholding _laughter_?

He prevented himself from openly wincing. There still was a chance he hadn't made a _complete_ fool of himself. He braved it."Is there… some sort of _trick_ to it?"

"Not at all—it's all there, plain for your eyes to see," Elizabeth replied matter-of-factly. She turned to face him, and her once aggrieved face now shone with malicious merriment as she frowned on him severely, laughing with her eyes while she threatened him, "You are to repeat none of it ever again."

"Elizabeth, this paper's empty."

There. A flicker of a smile tickled her lips for an instant, and then it was gone. Quickly, Jack began to accept the situation as she forced a visage of complete seriousness to be pinned on him, while sitting herself imperiously at her chair once more. "No, no! It's filled with my exact feelings for you—front to back."

So, that was it then. It _had _been a joke all along. What a clever and accomplished actress the girl was! He dropped the hand clutching the blank paper to his side, and scowled at the conniving female with a humorless smirk.

Mrs. Turner picked up on it quickly, and grinned widely, laughing quietly with the deepest of satisfactions at the effects her game had come to, at the pirate's expense. Her giggles were merry and matched the rhythm of the fireplace, for once removing the somber notion of her husband's absence from her shoulders, as she lightly grasped a few more sheets of empty paper, and slid them on her desk in Jack's direction. "Here are the other fifty sheets, if you're interested."

"Tha's funny. A real chortle," he drawled as if unamused. The truth of the matter, however, was that he'd joined in her game. Her state of separation and peculiar station between wife and widow had left her often more pensive and somber than was her true nature. The steady presence of William had been a founding for her, Jack had realized, but it wasn't until his absence had taken its true toll on Will's wife that Jack realized how oddly deep the connection that bound and uplifted their two hearts was. He didn't rightly understand it, completely, and had long since given up trying, but that didn't stop him from trying to help them along his way—as they had when they had believed all had been lost for him, many years before. Though daily increasing, still rare were the times that her heart was buoyant enough to joke and jest as she now did. Who was he to stop her laughter? He laughed at her expense constantly.

Apparently, however, she wasn't as adept at reading the Sparrow's moods as she was her estranged spouse, and she soon took Jack's faux-sourness to be a reality. Her laughing ceased, and she shook her head as she frowned at him, disappointed by his seemingly easy offense. "Oh, come off it. You have to admit it was clever—I had you, for a moment, didn't I?"

Jack rolled his eyes dramatically as he crossed his arms. Perhaps she did—but he most certainly did _not_ have to admit it.

The Pirate King rolled her eyes in return, and retook up her quill, dipping it, and then beginning to write again with a resolve that suggested nothing had remotely disrupted her doings. Even in times when he was nothing but dead certain that she had forgotten for just a moment, the lass never ceased to surprise him with her increasingly unbroken devotion to the father of her child. Jack found himself more fascinated with it every time it happened. To that man, never would she wane, never would she waver... only grow ever more enamored with him in each passing day. Will Turner had chosen well in his mate.

Jack stood behind her, to better observe her elegant hand as it scrawled across the page from over her strong shoulder. "What d'you write to him, anyways? What could be so important as to take up three—" she put the page she had been working with on a stack beside her writing space and grabbed a fresh page; he gawked, "—_four_ sheets of paper?"

"Oh, there will be _much_ more to come—be ye warned!" she drawled, her attentions mostly focused on her writings, once more.

"S'not mushy, frilly, quixotically amorous twaddle, is it? He seems more inclined to take care of that enough for the both of yous." He bent low, squinting to turn the squiggles worming across the page into some form of language.

"Oh, it's _nothing_—" she shoved his head away non too gently, and returned to her work. Clearly, that matter was settled: she wanted him to go away.

The scritching of her cacography once again dominated the environment, and Jack sighed dramatically at the renewed onslaught of boredom. Nothing loud or interesting could be done here. The nearest pub and brothel were miles away, which Jack wasn't willing to venture when all the good wenches were probably all taken by this hour anyway. And the blasted baby—bless his itty bitty heartbreaking heart—would wake if he attempted something unusual in the home, which could end up being hazardous to the pirate's health. Not to mention his mother would throttle him in the streets if he did anything that she deemed unseemly under her roof.

"Except," she continued softly on the spur of the moment from where she had previously left off, "perhaps, stories about the beautiful little boy he left behind and can share no form of familiarity with, though he loves him dearly; tokens; questions; reminders of brighter days..."

Jack frowned. What was she talking about, again? Ah, yes. Her letters' inane contents. How completely desiccate. He once again tried to interest himself in the portrait over the mantelpiece—it seemed to be the only truly interesting thing to look at in the room's restricting confines. That and her large selection of books, though she absolutely forbid him to touch those, for whatever bizarre reasons her mad feminine mind came to produce.

She continued, "A toddler's various antics may be of little to no interest to you, Jack, but to Will they're treasure. And, for your information, I happen to love his mushy, frilly, amorous twaddle." The sound of warm admiration and bitter longing tore at her voice. She sighed and paused, pensively, in her penning. "A lot." Her thoughts took her, and she wandered in memory, too deeply enshrouded to continue the document before her.

Jack was struck by how stupid he had to be to fall to her previous play-acting, as it sounded nothing like the true heartfelt sincerity she now revealed. But, more than that, he was struck with how well he could read her thoughts in her flickering, shadowed profile. As he looked at her, William was with her, in some time long since past, speaking to her in soft words that had once been magnificent to her—endearing, sweet, maybe even arousing, at the time—but that had grown to be a bitter shadow of what she still wanted, and nevertheless could not have for the time. She was somber beyond means, once again lost in her own world...

"You miss 'im."

She physically snapped, the jolt of the transfer between her own world and the real one being a sudden and unpleasant journey. The nostalgic wife shook her head to clear the last wisps of memory from her eyes, and turned to look at Jack, lethargically putting together what it was he had said. Once it registered, however belatedly, she quirked her pretty head in interest at why the odd Sparrow would state something so trivially obvious.

He was in a peculiar mood, to be certain. Somehow, Jack felt inclined to once more bear a bit of his soul to one part of the Turner duet. There wasn't even rum around! He should just keep his mouth shut... So, then _why_ was he beginning to talk?! "I can' rightly believe I am even considering tellin' you this… But I miss 'im too." He'd be drawn and quartered before she didn't use that fact against him, one day. Why couldn't he just shut up?

Because, for once, he might actually be speaking to someone who wouldn't think less of him for not being emotionally impervious to... _emotion_? Or maybe he needed more sleep than he was willing to admit. Yes, that had to be it.

He looked to Elizabeth, to smile, but mentally shook his head in surprise when he found her to be glaring at him with eyes narrowed in disgust. She thought he was mocking her! Well! He held up his hands in a gesture of his own defense as he balked back at her. "M'serious! I mean, I may not do so n'the same way s'you, an' I _certainly_ don' want to hafta spend time with him more'n once every… month 'r so…" He expected her to bite back at that comment. The lady had shut her previously-opened mouth, and turned her head in rare, simple listening, a subtle smile in her eyes. So, Jack swallowed, and shrugged halfheartedly, feeling encouraged to continue in his truth. He diverted his attention to fiddle with a miniature equestrian statue that had been set upon the mantelpiece. "But... I miss 'is pain in th'arse goodiness an' 'is overwhelmingly nauseating constant preoccupation with you. An'... it don' seem right that either of you should be withou' the other—especially after all you went through."

He made the horse do a simple dance with its two rear feet as nothing more was spoken. The little hooves made patterns in the dust. Elizabeth must not have been overly fond of housework... He could feel her eyes on his back.

"What do you want?"

The head of the rider snapped off under the pressure of his index finger and rolled to the ledge's end. Jack slapped it before it could go any further, licked it as if it would, by some strange chance, create an adhesive, and attempted to reattach it to its stub of a neck. "Wot?" He flashed her a quick glance, hoping the figure wasn't of much value.

Elizabeth simply shot him a disbelieving look, sucking on her cheek, before sharply imitating his reaction: "'_Wo'_?'"

He let the statue drop on its side and firmly placed a hand on his hip. He pinned her with an angry glare. "Oh, _sure_! I give a little sincerity an' all I get's a, 'What do you want, Jack Sparrow?'" His imitation of her was nasally and somewhat screechy. He shook his head with disappointment. And that had been the tip off—she saw he was playing again, only to peeve her, so she shook her head and returned to her endless length of a missive. That wasn't how the game was supposed to be played, however, and Jack was never one to let anyone but himself break the rules. He took a lazy step towards her, grinning foxily with a clever gleam in his eye. "Although, if you're willing to give, I must say I wouldn't mind taking…" he rumbled.

She shot him fiery knives from a longnine with her eyes.

Alright, alright! The game was over. "I'm jokin', luv," he admitted testily.

"Why did you save him, Jack?" The question through him for a loop, and he had to blink his eyes several times to make sure she was still there, awaiting an answer to a question that she really had conjured. She was there, every time, looking up at him expectantly like a judge at a trial and young girl needing her significant other all at once, forbidding and innocent. How strange. She took his silence for confusion, and parted her lips with a delicate flash of irritation in her facade as she moved to speak. "You wanted his place—eternal life."

This? Nearly two years after the fact, and she was asking him this now? Well... He scratched the back of his neck and observed the fine rug he had been standing on. '_Guess there's more to look at in here than I firs' realized_...' "D'you wan' the truth?"

She didn't say anything. He glanced up to peek an answer in her countenance: imploring. Of course she wanted the truth—she never asked him for anything else. He sighed, turned his back on her, and returned to the painting. He was certain he knew the place...

"I still want it. I wanted to stab that bloody heart too. An' I probably would of." He picked up the horse and apparently examined the damage he had done to it and it's head. However, in reality he looked far past it, seeing things that now seemed to belong to a life in another world. "But there were some thin's that I just couldn't git outta me head. Seein' tha' sword fixed into _him_ was…" He put the horse down and fingered the dust on the mantelpiece again, thoughtfully.

Eventually, he turned, his beaded mass of hair jingling and clicking softly with the rustle of his clothes, and he looked to the fair king of pirates sitting at her desk, listening with her eyes trained on something beyond the wood grains they claimed to be watching. "The las' time I saw tha' sword, even though it had been in different hands, I was near the noose, hopin' that someone out there would be so kin' as to have somethin' of a plan for my benefit… but not really. I was standin', expectin' the less-than-perfect death I never wanted to close in on me, when, in a flash o' oddly exuberant color, I had another chance. An' there, standin' in the way for my sake, wasn't Mister Gibbs or a long lost friend of little to no consequence, but the hopelessly naïve, love-lorned Will Turner."

Her gaze shifted to him, unreadable except for a noticeable undercurrent of interest. She had heard this tale before—but never like this.

He broke their visual contact and swaggered to the wide window, where the white foam could be seen breaking on the silver sands of the moonbeach. "He didn' need to save me that day. He didn' have no true allegiance to me nor I t'him. No benefit of monetary or consequential value would come to him. An' you were safe…"

She sighed.

"But he was ready to swing… because he was a good man. Too good, even. An' the nex' thing I see him, I thank him by responding to his desperate necessity by tryin' to use his plight to my advantage, to sell his soul to the devil instead of mine—anythin' that would help me—when all he wanted was to be able to spend the rest of his hopefully long and happy life with the dream-girl he loved more than was safe or natural..." His language was different, but when he glanced at her reflection in the imperfect glass panes, he saw she understood his meaning perfectly; and there was a warmth radiating in her aspect that had nothing to do with the flames in the hearth. She was laughing at him, inside.

He flashed golden smile back to the glass, knowing she would catch the reflection."The point bein', we did a lot of wrongs by each other, an' no one can really tell who was right by who in the end, or if we were truly square." He dropped his gaze and turned around, a sudden somber light befalling his expression as he looked to the past, melancholy and grateful, as he fingered a loose button on his waistcoat. "But it's wha' 'e probably would have done for me—s'what he _did do_ _before_—because the bloody stupid whelp always followed his bloody stupid heart… And a heart like tha' don' deserve to stop beating tha' way."

His fingers quieted with him, and the fire took advantage of the new opportunity to begin a new symphony. Elizabeth, still allowing the wafting airs of thoughtfulness to follow her, stood and, selecting the tools of her choice, shifted the wood to still its energetic display of popping gusto. Being in Brazil, the true need for warmth was hardly ever the question when it came to a fire. Yet she still insisted on one, each night, before she retired for the evening. She never said why, but Jack had often suspected that it had something to do with her husband's blacksmithing days or memories of her father—also constantly remembered by his devoted daughter.

"You could be a poet, Jack. You know that?" The fire quieted, she recaged it and hung her prong.

Jack shrugged and headed for the armchair in the corner. "S'just words."

"But they _mean_ something," she pressed insistently. She waited until Jack had finished settling into the material's cushiness before making certain he was paying attention and continuing. He stretched his legs out in front of him as far as they would go and pressed his chin to his chest before looking at her. "And they mean an awful lot to me."

Perhaps he could manage personal revelations, but emotional bondings were truly not his cup o' tea. He didn't even really like tea. He reached up to tip his hat, but, rediscovering and remembering it had been hung on a rack near the entrance, he shrugged and closed his eyes without it.

"You really are a good man, and that is just one of a few reasons why I tolerate your company."

"Not reasons why you love me?" he mumbled his joke.

"_No,_" Mrs. Turner returned steadfastly, though not without laughter.

He smiled in spite of himself, and cracked one eye open to peer at the comely maiden turned in his direction, smiling matronly. "As long as it don' sound like I mean to horn in, would you mean reciting a few o' the others?"

She shook her head and grinned fully, turning to sort the papers on her desk into a less haphazard orchestration. "Well. Aside from the fact that you cannot help but drag adventure along with you everywhere, kicking and screaming, I suppose I have to admit that you are prone to include pleasant surprises every once and a while... Like thoughtfulness, and sincerity." Elizabeth gave him a pointed smirk. Jack rolled his eyes. She continued, factually, "You're jaunty and optimistic, and in spite of every part of ourselves, I think the world finds it hard to deny it's contagious. You know your place well enough to be happy it isn't someplace else... And you care for the man I love while the world despises his thought."

Jack paused and then sat up at that. He pinned Elizabeth with an observant stare, only to find her returning it with the softest look she had ever given him in her entire expanse of existence. He opened his mouth to speak. He wanted to protest. No, he didn't _care_ for William! He was just being generous! The boy was a stupid, obnoxious whelp that didn't know what was truly good for him... He would have said that. Or at least, a part of himself decided so. In the end, he smiled in gratitude and agreement—and nothing could have felt more right on the matter.

She smiled back, admiration brimming in her eyes. "You saved him, Jack, in spite of it all. And I'm grateful for such a friend. For myself, and for him."

'_An' _that_, my dear Elizabeth, if you don't mind me sayin', meant a lot to _me' She didn't hear his thought, notwithstanding he grinned amiably and without his usual cynicism playing at the edges. Though she spoke truth, and had honestly given him her gratitude—something that didn't happen as often as he would have liked—he casually folded his arms across his chest, crossed his ankles, and, leaning back into the soft embrace of the fine furniture in which he sat, shrugged as he closed his eyes. "Eh. More acquaintances than friends, really."

He heard her sigh with mild exasperation, though he knew she was smiling still. There was silence. The fire had quieted and now the soft song of the sea could be heard leaking into the house in melodic snatches. Soon the scratching of her quill began again, though, this time, the pace was smooth and constant—as though her contentment reached the stroke of her hand.

"What was that, 'Let me count the ways...?' Shakespeare?" she asked over her art.

"Perhaps," he replied undeterminedly. He was relaxed, but sleep was still far from making its nightly debut. He wove his fingers together and placed his interlocked hands on his belly, glad to simply be in such pleasant company—though, admittedly, it would have been far surpassed by a drink and the deck of his _Pearl_, at sea... Black sails. He'd find them. Perhaps, tomorrow? Next week would be nice, as well.

"Well, maybe you could quote it in full—I'd like to give it to him."

Give William Shakespeare? Now, that was ironic. "Why not write your own words, Lizzie? He tends to love words more if they belong to you."

The idea seemed to please her, and she silently continued scratch away. Soon she began to hum snatches of different tunes. Her pirate song, lullabies to her baby, a common ballad and chantey or two... He needed to stop by Tortuga again. Next vessel—he'd be there, for certain. Maybe he could convince Elizabeth to arrange something for him? That would certainly simplify things. He wanted to yawn, but it wouldn't come. He was still far from slumber.

"Would you like to write to him?" He hadn't noticed her pen had paused. Jack opened his eyes to peer at her, dubiously. She simply looked back at him, natural and inquisitive. "I know he would like to hear from you too."

Would he really? Jack studied her for an instant, looking for that prankish hue that had colored her minutes before. He found no such malevolence. So, up he sat and offered a simple, glad smile. "I'd like that very much."

She split into an expression of mirth, before scooting her chair to the side and taking her missive with it to make room for Jack on the far end of her desk. Once he had brought the imperial armchair to where she had appointed, he situated himself comfortably and grasped a sheet of parchment paper.

"Let me get you a quill." She stood and fled from the room.

"An' some rum while yer at it!" the pirate called after her as he reached across the table for the just-out-of-reach quill, not missing her sharp breath of exasperated disapproval before she disappeared entirely.

"Don't touch my letters!"

Right, right. He couldn't reach the damned pinion. He sucked in his gut and attempted to stretch his arm farther, but that only succeeded him in allowing to brush his fingers against the edge of the plume, which only managed to push it farther away. He gave up, and took a short moment to notice that a candle's light could be seen coming from the kitchen, Elizabeth's fishing about carrying on the still air of the night. She hated the vile drink, and made no small point of telling him so, often. Yet still she searched for it. Huh. "Y'know…" Jack mused to himself, as he leaned back in the chair to wait for the lady of the house, "maybe the whelp was on to something with the respectful, selfless deeds after all…"

'Friends,' she had said. Maybe Will's _little _Will wasn't so bad—but the tiny whelp still bit him something fierce every once in a while. And yet, perhaps it was so. Just this once.

Of course it was. Though he wouldn't openly admit it, but Will and Elizabeth... He could live with the thought.

Jack sighed and twiddled his thumbs. Once more, there was nothing to do for the moment, which, for Jack, could not be tolerated. The pen was well out of reach, and there was no way whatsoever he was leaving his spot after he was so comfortably seated. That left him only one thing to do, which, of course, made it a valid excuse: "Now, le's gain a gander at those letters…" He grasped them easily, as they were much closer than the blasted feather, sorted them in the order he believed to be correct, tapped them on the desk to straightened them out, and then settled himself for a snug read."'_My most dearly beloved William…_' Oh, 'ow sweet—she's in love!…"

* * *

**AN:** Either I'm awesome or really mean for my tactics, I know. I had to do it, okay? If you want to dislike my strict love for the canon pairings, then so be it. However, don't use that as a reason in your review for why you didn't like it. Differentiating opinions... Kind of silly. I would have a lot of stories to leave bad reviews, then, because of differntiating opinions.

DO, however, notify me of typos. I miss the wrong "there/their/they're" sometimes, even if I know exactly how to use them, simply because of speed. And they camoflauge. I swear they camoflauge.

Those following my story _On the Edge of a Knife, Off the Edge of the Map_, will note that I have changed the title to _The Wrath of Tláloc_. I have taken a long time to post because I came up with a new plot element that requires me to go back redo many of the old chapters, in addition to writing new ones. Once that's all be sorted out, hopefully, we will finally be able to continue the tale. It's going to be weird, but I hope you like it anyway.

Yay! Have a great new year!  
Jack E.


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